


White Blank Page

by Vanetti (lereya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pining John, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lereya/pseuds/Vanetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been thinking about his flatmate quite a bit.  What he doesn't realize is that he has been on Sherlock's mind, as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miamf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miamf/gifts).



> I wrote this as an attempt to get back to fic writing; it was written in an hour for the lovely Mia (martinfreeman on Tumblr), and should be fairly short and somewhat worksafe, by the end of it. Mia, I hope you like it!

It was a Tuesday afternoon when it happened. It had been an unremarkable day, as Tuesdays went, and John had been grateful for the relaxation. It was much needed after a particularly harrowing case; while neither of the tenants of 221B Baker Street had managed to have their lives directly threatened, the incident with the perpetrator of a double murderer almost discovering their identities before they had the proper evidence for Scotland Yard to intervene had been a bit too close for comfort, and although it had been three days since the case was closed, John had taken the whole of it to calm his resolve and settle back into whatever semblance of routine sufficed in his life with Sherlock Holmes. 

For the moment, John was alone. The silence of the flat was comforting, but the emptiness prompted boredom. Even when Sherlock was silent for days on end, and John was left to his own devices, it was just different from the utter loneliness in a way that he couldn’t identify. Perhaps he had just gotten used to the detective in his chair, or on the sofa, or sequestered in his bedroom, and when he wasn’t there, it was too easy for John to think about their unique living arrangement. About their unique life. He was always so willing to follow Sherlock in any ridiculous task asked; whether or not he whinged about it, he usually ended up acquiescing to whatever request was made of him. When there was nothing but his own mind and thoughts to contend with, John found that he felt rather lost. That thought was disturbing. He looked down at the empty cup of tea, and he wondered if he should have another. Surely, he had charts to look at to keep himself busy. There was probably some crap telly to give his attention to for the better part of an hour. Mostly, he just found himself irritated that mundanity made him so very restless. Before Sherlock Holmes, he had accepted it and worn it like a badge. Now that he knew how extraordinary, for better or worse, life could be, he hated it.

John stood from the kitchen table with a heavy sigh that seemed to fill the empty flat. A bath, then, and then he could at least go out to the shops. He was loathe to open the refrigerator for fear of what body part might be found there, but he supposed that he could get a few staple items that he knew that they must be running out of. The water ran hot through the groaning tap to fill the tub, and as John undressed, he stole a glance at his face in the mirror. He looked tired. He wondered when the lines on his face had grown so very deep. He supposed that there were disadvantages to this sort of life, but as he lowered himself into the tub, a slight chuckle escaped him. What a thing to worry about. He supposed that his advancing crow’s feet couldn’t solely be chalked up to adventure and the stresses that it caused; after all, Sherlock had been right beside him for most of them, and the man still looked damn near twenty. Hell, Sherlock had been the catalyst for most of their precariousness, and yet he was always so … 

Fit didn’t seem to be the word that John was actively seeking, and yet it was the first one that came to mind. He closed his eyes and let the water soothe his tired muscles. He hated that he thought of his best friend in such an inappropriate fashion. This was hardly the first time that the thought had occurred. It had been happening with increasing frequency lately, though, and that was reason enough for discomfort. Yes, he rather enjoyed the look of Sherlock, and nights had been spent lying awake in his bed, considering it. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t as tall as everyone seemed to think, but the considerable height difference between them always brought a lurch to John’s chest when he was standing beside him nonetheless. Sherlock always seemed to occupy so much space around him, and while John knew that under most circumstances, he would feel in the detective’s shadow a bit, that thought never really occurred. 

He had taken considerable time to think of why, of course. He knew that he rather fancied his friend, but he had resigned himself to that affection remaining unrequited. After all, Sherlock had made his inability to feel anything, for anyone, quite clear on numerous occasions. The only time that he had managed to give a glimpse of adoration to anyone, it had been The Woman, and if that didn’t discourage John from seeking out anything other than the strictly platonic, he would have been a fool. Another sigh escaped as John sat up in the tub and felt the chill of the air as the water ran down his back and arms. It was all foolish. It was so foolish to consider. And yet, when he was left alone for too long, his thoughts always turned to his funny detective, the man who was immune to tenderness and yet the only person to whom John was wholeheartedly devoted.

The more wanton thoughts that made their way past his subconscious into his dreaming ideas always left him frustrated, both with himself for their impropriety that could and did quite literally make a soldier blush, and for his situation, in which nothing would ever come of them. The water was getting cold, and John made quick work of washing up, grumpy that he had wasted even more moments ruminating on those curls that framed Sherlock’s sharp face and nestled against the nape of his neck, on those impossibly long fingers and their delicacy as they fiddled with the remote, or his mobile, or gently held the bow of his violin to play an opus, or _damn it he was doing it again._

John pushed himself from the water, and the splashes were almost deafening as they cut through the swirling fog in the soldier’s mind, images of Sherlock’s captivating eyes and the depth of the timbre in his voice. John shook his head vigorously to clear it. This wouldn’t do. He was finally relaxing, damn it, whether he liked it or not, and a walk might do him some good. He let out the water in the tub and reached over for his towel. He groaned; the rack was bare. It was then that he remembered the load of linens that he had been so diligent as to at least get into the dryer, and he cursed under his breath at his lack of foresight in taking the final step to put the towels away properly. Dripping wet and completely nude, John swung open the bathroom door and stepped out into the living area to make soggy tracks in the hardwood that he was already lamenting having to clean up later.

It was then that he was met with the sight of Sherlock, standing by the door, looking every bit as shocked as John at the sight before him.


	2. Bart's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is far too distracted to continue with his research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, things are actually going to happen in the next chapter.

Sherlock Holmes was annoyed. He had been at Bart’s for just over two hours, and in that time, he hadn’t managed one moment of proper research. Molly was being more unhelpful than usual; he supposed that he probably shouldn’t have mentioned her latest failed romantic exploit with quite so much smugness at predicting the exact date of its demise. As it was, he needed twelve additional blood samples from the ones that he had managed to liberate from the lab. The discovery that those had become contaminated had certainly put a damper on his mood, and as he peered down into the microscope, he found that he had difficulty concentrating on any findings that might be beneficial to his study on hemoglobin desaturation. 

It was maddening when his needs weren’t met, especially when he had initially decided upon leaving Baker Street to do this research as a distraction from the troubling thoughts racing through his mind in the first place. He needed this. He had been entirely too wrapped up in the boring business of existing without a case, and it had been three entire days since their last one had been closed. Of course, John seemed perfectly content to return to his droll lifestyle of reading the paper, drinking his tea, and going into the clinic. 

John was actually quite a creature of routine, when he wasn’t following Sherlock’s superior direction. When he had shifts at the clinic, he awoke fifty-five minutes prior to his shift in order to get ready. He chose his clothing before he showered, which always took from five to seven minutes. Next, he walked down the stairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil while he showered, which took eight minutes – two for the water to finally warm from their old pipes, and six for John to actually shower. Sherlock knew, of course, that his flatmate’s efficient hygiene habits were a carryover from his military days. Then John would shave, which he took slightly more care with. A whole five minutes was devoted to it, and once he was done, he donned his dressing gown and made a cup of tea. Back up the stairs while it steeped to get dressed, and then the doctor was ready to have his tea and a light breakfast before leaving the flat. It was usually just a bit of toast or Wheatabix on these mornings. After he’d eaten, John would walk back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and fuss over his hair, and then eight minutes later, he was gone. It was always the same. Sherlock had often considered commenting upon it, but he found it strangely endearing, and he was hesitant to mention aloud that he’d even noticed such a habit.

It was typically a much more relaxed affair when John didn’t have any schedule to keep. He loved his long baths, Sherlock knew, and sometimes he would spend almost an hour soaking in the tub. It was annoying at times, but aggravation often gave way to Sherlock simply imagining what sorts of thoughts John might have when he was left alone and free to his own mind. No matter how much Sherlock observed him, that was one of many questions about his friend that would regrettably go unanswered. After all, it wasn’t as if Sherlock could ask John what he considered while soaking his tired muscles; that would probably clue him into the fact that the detective had an interest in something other than himself and the work, and that wouldn’t do. 

Sherlock leaned back from the microscope, and he sighed as he lifted a large hand to run over his face. This was getting him nowhere. He might as well be baking a cake, for all the uselessness of peering at a slide and thinking about John Watson in the bath. It was horribly frustrating, the way that his friend crept into his thoughts so effortlessly. As much as Sherlock tried to push his mind back into reality before his thoughts turned wholly inappropriate, it was already too late. From the various states of undress that he had been privileged to see, he could offer a guess as to what John’s body looked like underneath his clothes or his dressing gown. It was never something that he considered deliberately. No, it always snuck in uninvited, at the most inopportune of times, such as this one. Sitting in the lab at Bart’s was absolutely not the time to consider John’s smaller, stubbier fingers, or the way that he had such a small frame and yet such a stout torso. Sherlock sighed again. He reached up and worried the curls atop his head with his palms. He got up and grabbed his coat. It was time to leave Bart’s.

He would simply have to get back to Baker Street and find something there to distract him. Perhaps he would play the violin. He could play for ages without John bothering him; truly, it was one of the only times that he could be left to his own stream of consciousness. He supposed that if John had baths, he had his violin. He made his way out to catch a taxi, flinging his coat over his arms and onto his back as he walked out onto the cold and rainy street. But what did John think about in there? It wasn’t as if he had a mind as sharp and brilliant as Sherlock’s. He couldn’t have that much to think about in his tedious life. At the same time, it was impossible to imagine that John Watson considered the more banal and trite drivel that he saw in the facial expressions of most normal people that he encountered. John was sharper and more complex than that. It was doubtful that he thought about his painful past at war, either; he always seemed so relaxed when he came out of the bath. It was one of Sherlock’s favorite times to observe John, in fact, and the very reason why he was so curious about what ran through his flatmate’s mind. John would come out, in his dressing gown and bare feet, his hair wet and sticking up in odd places, looking positively blissful. It was beautiful.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and shook his head to clear it of such thoughts as he finally arrived at Baker Street. He handed a few notes to the driver and exited the cab. It simply wouldn’t do to think of the only person who could tolerate him in such an unproductive fashion. He had known for some time that he held what might be considered by some to be an unhealthy interest in his only friend. Other people and their narrow opinions never concerned Sherlock, but John’s opinion was of the highest esteem, and if he ever found out that Sherlock had whole dissertations written in his head about the form of John Watson in a dressing gown after a bath, he would never be able to survive it. He bounded up the stairs to their flat and frowned as he found the door locked. Only a moment of fumbled keys and slipping one into the lock later, and he was home.

And there was John. In the living room. Naked.

Sherlock froze. Immediately, his mind began to race, committing everything possible to memory. John was tense, but not in the way that would be expected from embarrassment of having his naked body exposed. No, there was something different there. He didn’t hold the expression of a man caught in the buff. He had the very distinct countenance of a man caught doing something he oughtn’t. It couldn’t be. Certainly, this was hope coloring the detective’s more intuitive deductions about humans and their nature. But as the pair of them stood facing each other, he knew that he was right. He was glad, at least, that while the reason behind John’s shame was written all over his face, the smaller man didn’t possess such skill as to read the identical expression on Sherlock’s own face. His heart pounded as blood rushed to his ears, and it all became terribly clear by the way that John’s forehead strained, his eyes narrowed as he tried to judge what was being said in their silence, the smallest shift from one foot to the other. That was it, then. _That_ was what calmed John in his most intimate and private moments. _That_ was what he thought of when he was left free to think of anything, anything at all. 

He thought about Sherlock. Sherlock took in a breath, and then he finally spoke. “Oh.”


	3. Bachelor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes shopping to take his mind off of Sherlock's intrusion. It doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happens! This took forever to publish! Thanks for sticking with me so long; you're all wonderful dears. This hasn't been beta'd or Brit-picked, so sorry for any inconsistencies!

“Bleeding Christ, Sherlock!” John’s hands flew to his groin immediately, a vain attempt to hide his most intimate parts from his rude, insufferable flatmate. “Don’t just stand there! Can you… just… not… nevermind.” As quickly as it had all happened, John was back in the bathroom, the door slammed shut behind him, and his feet hurriedly kicking back into the very clothing that he had abandoned by the large tub. It was the only logical solution, really, with Sherlock standing there so infuriatingly oblivious to the annoyance of a lack of privacy in the flat. And why should John expect any different? The detective often strolled around in nothing but his dressing gown, or worse, ate breakfast with nothing but a sheet draped around him. Privacy wasn’t something that would ever occur to him, and John was annoyed with himself for assuming otherwise. Even for a moment.

If he were to think on his situation for longer than it took him to don his worn clothing, march out of the bathroom without even fussing with his hair, and leave the flat, he would have realized that his anger was misdirected by his own embarrassment. As it was, he was halfway to the shops when it finally dawned on him that the detective had stood rooted to the spot even as John had pushed past him to leave. He must have looked a sight, with his red face, hair sticking up in bits that he could feel even now that it had dried, and rumpled clothing that betrayed his clean skin. He hoped beyond hope that he had managed to leave before he had been found out. He hoped beyond hope that when it came to such matters, Sherlock would be just oblivious enough to have missed the source of John’s discomfort.

It was a quick enough task to get most of the sundry items that would tide the pair of them over for at least a few days; John had limited money at his disposal, and while normally he would have just asked for Sherlock’s card, there was no way in hell that he was prepared to make such a request before leaving the flat in a huff. Perhaps he should have stayed. Perhaps that might have been the most opportune time to have a conversation about boundaries and privacy and all the rest. But there was a danger there – a very real danger – that Sherlock would have deduced precisely why John was so flustered. He may have done already. “Stop it,” John muttered to himself as he pushed his tiny cart to the check out. “You’re being ridiculous. No one’s that good. Not even Sherlock bloody Holmes.” He was annoyed with himself, and annoyed with the circumstance, and most of all, he was annoyed that he couldn’t even work out what he would do if the unthinkable happened and Sherlock worked it out.

He decided against the chip-and-PIN machine (he never had much luck with it) and opted to check out with an actual person instead. As he waited in the queue, his eyes fell on a stack of papers for sale, and he felt heat rise underneath his collar and reach the tops of his ears. There they were, right on the front page: Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Watson. He tilted his head back and sighed with a weariness that was noticed quickly by the elderly woman in front of him. He gave her an apologetic and bashful smile when she looked at him as she grabbed her bags, and he was grateful to be rung up next, the hope of getting out of there without much more fanfare sparking within him.

He had no such luck. The cashier looked upon him with a mild curiosity that bordered on the obsessive as she rang up his items, and it was only after a few caught glances that made him feel increasingly uncomfortable that she finally spoke. “You’re that detective,” she said, her tone light with wonder. 

“No, no,” he said humbly, as he had found himself doing more often as of late. “Not me. I’m just a doctor. You’re thinking of my flatmate.”

“But you’re the one’s always with him in all the photos,” she pressed, clearly oblivious to John’s humility and desperate need to get out of there unnoticed. “You help him solve all them crimes.”

“I do my part.” It really wouldn’t do to be rude to the poor girl; when he finally made eye contact, he found that she was actually really rather fit, in a girl-next-door sort of way. She had long blond hair that was pulled up in a messy bun, and her brown eyes sparkled as she engaged with him in conversation. Her name tag read CHERYL. He grinned. 

“So what’s it like?” she asked. She was now disregarding her post entirely, much to the chagrin of the other patrons in line. John didn’t much care, and apparently, neither did she. “You know… bein’ with someone like that? He seems well arsey. He’s so fit, but I can’t imagine it. Probably makes you sleep on the couch just for sayin’ the wrong things, I reckon.”

“I… what?” John simply blinked at Cheryl as her words sank into his brain. She couldn’t seriously think… “We’re not a couple. We’re just flatmates.”

“Right,” she said, offering a knowing and exaggerated wink along with her nod as she rang up the last of his items. “Just flatmates. Who go out and solve sexy crimes together. Yeah?”

“What’s the – what the hell is the matter with you?” After the events of the afternoon, this was beyond the pale. And to think that he had entertained the thought of flirting with this lunatic. It was the absolute last thing that he needed, and he pulled out his wallet in a hurry. He immediately felt badly as soon as he saw Cheryl’s crestfallen face, and he opened his mouth to stammer out an apology. Instead, she spoke first.

“I didn’t mean – I was only sayin’, I just thought because you two’s together all the time and the papers said…”

“Listen to me,” he countered. He didn’t want to hear what the papers said. He knew what they said. He hated what they implied. And he hated most of all how everyone was so right and so wrong all at the same time. He drew out a few notes from his wallet and then shoved it back into his pocket. “I am not gay!” With that, he threw the notes at her, grabbed his bags, and stalked off in a rather impressive huff.

“But sir – your change!”

\------------

By the time John finally made it back to the flat, he was fuming. The bags weighed heavily in his arms, but he hardly cared enough to bother asking for help. In fact, if he didn’t see Sherlock at all in the next few hours, that would be just fine with him. He might have made too much noise putting away the groceries, and he definitely made a production of pulling out the whisky bottle to pour himself a finger of the stuff to calm down. He didn’t care. The flat was silent, and whether Sherlock was sequestered in his bedroom or out for the evening, John didn’t know and didn’t want to know. 

He sighed, a heavy, loaded expulsion of breath, as he lowered himself into his armchair and picked up his glass to sip at his liquor. It was then that he caught sight of it. Just there, on the small table beside Sherlock’s own lounging chair, was a photo of John from his army days. John blinked, his brow furrowed, and his head tilted in curiosity, and he lifted himself up just enough to grab hold of it before he sank back down to examine it. It must have come out of his things, though he was far too perplexed about the state of it to be annoyed that Sherlock had once again invaded his privacy. His head had been cut out of it, leaving a blank hole where the smiling face should be. After only a few seconds of gawking at it in utter confusion, John shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Don’t want to know. Do not even want to know.” He tossed back the whisky in a single, large gulp.


End file.
